


My Almost

by Neosiuss



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Death, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Pining, Self-Destruction, Sorry Not Sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-19 02:48:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4729907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neosiuss/pseuds/Neosiuss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where The Inquisitor and Velethuil are not one, though both must die to do what must be done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Almost

**Author's Note:**

> I love writing angst c: there is some game dialogue, and the order of things is a little bit off (ie Dorian mentioning Liberalum before the siege on Adamant) but, hey. It works.

Lavellan felt the eyes on his back as he crossed through the library. Dammit, it was the only way to the rookery. But it was past him—Velethuil attempted to push the would-be Magister out of him mind as he walked by, the scent of spice and roses hanging heavily in the air.

It’d been weeks since the mage wandered into the Inquisitor’s quarters, whispering ideas into Velethuil’s ears that nearly brought him to his knees. But to him, it seemed hours ago. Creators he wanted this man—to feel that warmth he’d only felt once, the moustache that so charmingly sat on his upper lip, to stay up well into the morning hours, not making love, but talking about their shared interests.

He couldn’t bring himself to do it. “No. I don’t know what you thought but—no,” the words left his mouth before he could truly think. That wasn’t how he wanted it to sound, not at all. He wanted Dorian, Creators he wanted his sh—this _human_ more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. But as the Inquisitor? No. The Inquisitor, this shem figure head, was not allowed these primal feelings. Velethuil, absolutely could participate in this debauchery.

The Inquisitor? No.

“I don’t enjoyed being toyed with,” Dorian’s brow furrowed and he crossed his arms, glancing down his nose at the other. Good. Velethuil would rather Dorian hated him. Much better than any pining. “First you’re hot, then you’re cold. If this isn’t leading anywhere, then say so. I’m a big boy, I can take it.”

_Of course you could,_ he snorted at the thought, both inappropriate and mirthless. Now was not the time. “You caught me at a bad time Dorian—“

“When is a good time, exactly?” Vel could see the anger bubbling under the normally flippant façade on the mage’s face. _Good,_ he thought, _hate me. It’ll be easier for us both_. “You face death on a daily basis, my friend.”

“I know, but—,” he had stopped himself there. He couldn’t allow ‘buts’. Buts led to maybes, maybes led to probablys, and probablys led to promises that could never be kept as they faced down the darkspawn magister, unsure of who would come out alive and who wouldn’t.

“I apologize, my sense of timing is usually better. Perhaps we should… pick this up some other time? After this business with Corypheus is resolved, for both our sakes.”

And that was it—their conversation ended with Dorian leaving, obviously furious, and Velethuil sinking into his mattress with his head in his hands.

It was the soft call of his title that brought him back to reality.

“Inquisitor, if I may have a moment,” he recognized the accent and the sadness that sat in his chest grew heavier. He turned begrudgingly, bracing himself against Helisma’s table.

“Yes, Lord Pavus?” Titles. That’s all their relationship was. That’s all it should be.

“Quite,” the displeasure sat obvious on Dorian’s features as he approached, the smell of spice and roses becoming permanent in Velethuil’s nose. How he would love to sweep this man into his arms, bury his nose into his neck and just smell him. “The copy of the _Liberalum_ you requested has arrived, and I wanted to thank you. I wish not to be in your debt, Inquisitor.”

Formalities. Good. He could deal with formalities. Formalities made it easier to die.

“You are not in my debt, Sir Altus,” the word sat foreign on his tongue but he knew it would drive in the point. The barely noticeable flinch from the other let Velethuil know he had succeeded. “This information will be invaluable to the Inquisition and I humbly appreciate your dedication and commitment to this endeavor.”

Large words were still hard, but the Inquisitor couldn’t let himself falter. The Inquisitor would thank everyone personally, but not to personally. There would be no soft glances, no brushes, no _Here! I’ve found you the best chair in all of Skyhold, one that almost puts my throne in the same category as a tavern stool!_ No. Those were over. The Inquisitor would die saving the world, and Velethuil would die with him.

“Yes, of course, always glad to assist in the Inquisitions endeavors.” The sarcasm was sharp and it hit Velethuil hard, like a pen knife right between his ribs. Dorian needed only to twist it. “Maker guide you, Velethuil. And all that nonsense.”

Dorian twisted the knife quite thoroughly.

oOoOoOo

Fear demons, of course. Always had to be some sort of demon didn’t it?

And physically in the fade! As if the day couldn’t get any better.

Oh, right. He was here with Dorian. Fantastic.

He would personally throttle whomever it was that decided that Dorian, Cassandra, and Varric should accompany him. _Oh wait, that was me_.

Adamant had been grueling, and Velethuil was more than ready to be done with the Grey Wardens and their demons. He let Alistair know wholeheartedly. They traipsed through the fade, encountering a spirit claiming to be divine who guided them to this fear demon’s lair.

_Fantastic,_ he thought, drawing his daggers from their sheaths. _Everyone else saw spiders. Me? I see myself_.

He fought hard, trying to push any thought of Dorian out of his mind. It was hard when the mage kept a barrier around him at all times, calling his name—not his title, his name—when a particularly harmful blow hit him.

Ah, was that his blood now? Yes, he believed so.

Frantic Tevene curses rang out as he hit the ground, his head swimming. Good, good. The Inquisitor would die here, and there would be no more obligations. He was tired of it, honestly.

“Velethuil, Maker be dammed if you die on me right now!” The soft glow of healing magic made Velethuil’s insides warm. Damn, Dorian was terrible at this.

Moments passed and he felt his wound was healed enough, though there was definitely still internal damage. Velethuil stood slowly, spitting a mix of blood and saliva on the ground between him and this demon. Significantly weakened, he saw his chance.

“Go!” He shouted at his followers, ushering them towards the rift right behind the large demon. “Hawke, Alistair, go! I’ll keep this demon!”

There were protests, of course, but none so loud as Dorians.

“Kaffas Velethuil! Thedas needs you—not some damn martyr who dies in the fucking _fade_!”

“Go! Dorian, just go!” He pushed the mage towards the rift, tearing his eyes away as Marian grabbed his arm.

Pushed through the rift, Velethuil made short work of sealing it from the inside.

The panic came soon after. Dammit, maybe the Inquisitor should live just a little bit longer, yeah?

He fought his hardest, daggers ripping through the tender flesh of the demon’s underbelly. He thought of Dorian and his affinity for chamomile tea, not that he would ever tell anyone. _Too Orlesian_ , he had mused one night during their late study sessions in the library.

“Ir abelas, ma’vhenan,” he whispered softly. This was it, the end.

As the demon’s grasp took his mind, Velethuil could feel a soft smile on his face. He thought of Dorian. Dorian who showed him what large words meant, the Dorian who complained and groaned his whole way through the Fallow Mire, Dorian who looked up at him with hope in his eyes—Dorian.

And as he felt the last breath leave his chest, he let out a soft laugh. Dorian.

He will always be my almost.


End file.
